


Schneewittchen (Snow White)

by ArkanianDelphiki



Series: Genderbent Disney Princesses [1]
Category: Disney Cartoons (Classic), Disney Princesses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Artistic Liberties, Attempt at Historical Accuracy, Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales, Changeling Child, Deviates From Canon, Disney, Disturbing Themes, Dysfunctional Family, Embarrassingly short chapters tbh, F/F, F/M, Folklore, Fucked Up, Fusion of Disney Adaptation and Source Material, Gen, Genderbending, Major Reinterpretation, Other, POV Multiple, Seriously Guys This Doesn't Follow the Films
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArkanianDelphiki/pseuds/ArkanianDelphiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>GENDERBENT Snow White.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Born under mysterious circumstances, Schneewittchen is used to all the stares and whispers; used to being called a <em>wechselbalg</em>, a changeling child. His strange, somehow eerie beauty captivate the imagination of humankind. His impossibly gentle but wild spirit attracts the attention of all the animals of the forest. Only his stepfather, the striking Grimhilt, seems to take any real offense at the young prince.</p><p>Watch my ridiculous attempts at being historically accurate and trying to find a compelling, yet still a true-to-the-story character in Snow White.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fanfic _ever_. Any criticism is greatly appreciated!

It was snowing the day the queen consort went into labor. The king, both drawn to her screams and repelled by them, restlessly wandered the halls, and when he could take it no longer slipped outside, willing the cold to numb his mind and body. So lost was he in the fog of his thoughts he didn’t realize what had happened until he was sprawling face down in the snow.

Cursing under his breath, searing pain shooting up his spine, he turned over to find his breeches torn and his leg bloodied. It didn’t take long to spot the rusty plow responsible for his trip. It was broken and black, covered in snow and the king’s own blood.

His first irrational thought was this: _Black, white, and red. What a striking combination_.

Limping his way back to the castle, blood running down his leg, he wondered if the child had been born, what it looked like, what they’d name it. That night, after the child had been washed and returned to his mother’s arms, the king watched in awe. The tiny little infant, red and wrinkled all over, was far from looking like much of anything yet.

“He’s so little Adelhait,” he murmured, sitting by his queen’s bedside. She rested her head against a sweaty pillow, wisps of hair escaping from her long blond braid.

“He’s a strong little one all the same,” she replied. “He’ll be big and tall like his father. See, he even has your eyes.”

“He’ll be beautiful like you, darling,” he countered. “I think I recognize your nose. Now, sleep. You need to rest.”

As she drifted off, snuggling the baby close in her arms, his second irrational thought was this: _I wish my son to be as white as snow, hair as dark as ebony, and lips as red as blood. Wouldn’t that be the most beautiful boy in the world?_ Then he pushed the thought away, wiping the sheen of sweat from his wife’s brow with a wet cloth, watching the sleeping pair with a sense of wonder. What a silly idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are actually a lot of thing I have to say about this fanfic, but I don’t really want to bore you. The most important thing to address is the setting.
> 
> With help from amazing internet people who actually took the time to date and place the Disney Princess movies, dresses, etc. (seriously, look it up -- it’s fascinating stuff), I have decided to set this story in the 1400s (yes, yes, most say it should be 1500s, but I’m tweaking it), in the Low Countries.
> 
> What are the Low Countries? Since I only just learned about this don’t take my word for it, but this is my best explanation: The Low Countries is not a country, but an area of land, sort of squished next to Germany and France, but open to the North Sea. I believe it consist mostly of the Netherlands and Belgium. If you want a better idea of what it looks like, then Google is your best friend. In the 15th and 16th century, the Seventeen Provinces covered most of what we know of as the Low Countries. Snow is probably in the thirteenth Province, the Duchy of Guelders.
> 
> Why here, though? I am trying to reconcile a couple things I noticed or know. Snow is a German tale (and Germany is her official country), Snow wears clogs in her scullery maid getup at the movie’s beginning, Snow’s dress is mostly 16th century material, and the castle in the film appears to be more of a fiefdom or a tiny little kingdom which is hard to find during the Renaissance BUT YOU CAN FIND THEM IN THE LOW COUNTRIES (during the 15th and 16th century).
> 
> Taking all those things into consideration, I decided to get as close to Germany as possible, but just a little removed. Besides, when you have people talking to fairytale-like dwarfs and falling into magical death trances, well, we really shouldn't get too hung up on historical accuracy, neh?


	2. Wechselbalg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. About the names.
> 
> Schneewittchen- This is the German version of Snow White's name. Enough said there.
> 
> Grimhilt- The official name of the Evil Queen is Grimhilde. Try as I might, I couldn't find a way to make the name masculine, but I did find that Grimhilt is an earlier version of the name. Sadly, it is still listed as a feminine name, but hey, it sounds masculine enough to me. 
> 
> Adelhait & Katherine- Adelhait is a common feminine German name, and Katherine is a feminine Biblical name that has been German-ized.

Grimhilt watches me, waiting for my answer.

“Schneewittchen!” I call, knowing he’s playing by the fireplace and I’d rather he wasn’t present for this likely heated exchange.

“Mama?” My beautiful boy appears behind me, big hazel eyes full of curiosity. He looks itchy and uncomfortable in his mourning clothes.

“Oh! My love,” I take him up in my lap, and he wraps his soft little arms around my neck. “Why don’t you go play in the garden, darling? I thought I saw a litter of newborn rabbits...”

He’s out the door before I can even give him a kiss. Ever since he could walk his favorite place to be was outside, so I still don’t know what to make of his unnaturally pale complexion.

“That’s a pity sister-in-law. I should like to have spoken with the young one.”

“Silence, Grimhilt! This is a time of mourning. I cannot disrespect my late husband’s memory by considering remarriage so soon.”

“You are quite the sentimental type aren’t you, Adelhait?”

I turn away from him, deciding to go after my son, but he follows me nonetheless. _You’re a lady so don’t do anything stupid, Adelhait._

Striding through the halls, down the stairs, out the door, and into our sprawling courtyard, I pass by the well, stopping a moment to admire the greenery creeping over top it. It will look splendid come the spring. Behind me, Grimhilt appears, so I hurry away, walking quickly under the decorative stone arch where our modest little garden blooms in all its glory. I suppose it has a semblance of order to it, but we let is grow far wilder than most. There’s a certain beauty to untouched nature, both Gerbrecht and I had agreed.

My Gerbrecht’s favorite place to play with Schneewittchen was out in the woods, outside the castle. For now, we shall have to make do with the garden; I cannot leave our home unattended. Despite what Grimhilt may think, I am not blind to the precarious position we’re in.

Sitting underneath the shade of fruit trees, I watch Grimhilt as he tries to show Schneewittchen how to play _verstecken_ , but by all appearances, the little one can’t quite grasp the hide-and-seek concept. Not that he has anyone to play it with. I dislike the idea of my baby growing up alongside village wenches, and few of our servants have children. Most of them I’m not very fond of, or they are too old. Speaking of which…

“Katharine!”

She’s by my side within a minute, having followed Schneewittchen out. I’d say she’s in her fifteenth year or so by now, and while her face may be a bit too hard and far too square, the girl was still a good nurse to my boy when her mother fell ill. “Yes, my lady?” she inquires, patting at her hair, presumably checking to see if the brown braid around her head is still pinned firmly in place.

“Katharine, I left my needlework in my chamber. Go fetch it.”

She nods in acknowledgment and scurries off about her task. She’s back before Grimhilt has entirely given up on the hide-and-seek idea. I smile in amusement and turn my attention to my maid, receiving the needlework and sewing box with the grace befitting of my stature.

“Did you know how to play _verstecken_ when you were my son’s age, Katharine?” I inquire, curiosity getting the best of me.

She looks surprised at the personal inquiry. “Why…I suppose I did, my lady.”

Nodding, I sigh, struggling to focus on my needlework. I want to keep my hands and mind busy, but I make little progress in the endeavor. The apple tree’s bark cuts into my back when I lean against it. Few a few minutes I just stop everything and enjoy the day, closing my eyes to the world around.

I wonder at the ripe fruit and changing seasons, admiring how the late summer heat increases as the afternoon stretches on. Then I open my eyes. Soon, sweat begins to gather beneath my many layers, fabric sticking to sensitive arms and legs. A stray curl sticks to my forehead, another to my neck. It’s a funny feeling-- somewhere between nostalgia and being extremely uncomfortable.

It takes a while to recognize the presence of my brother-in-law, and that strikes me as odd. His shadow _is_ reasonably imposing. “Yes, Grimhilt?” I inquire tersely, refusing to look up at him. “What have you to say to me?”

He doesn’t respond, choosing instead to pluck a ripened apple from the laden bough of the tree. I know because I snuck a quick look at him. “Apples were my favorite as a boy,” he reminisces aloud. “I used to play in this very courtyard you know.”

“I am aware of this.” I hope I sound more in control than I feel, taking up my needlework once again. I don’t feel gracious at the moment. He’s been pushing entirely too hard all afternoon.

“Don’t be that way,” he sighs, moving to sit near me. Not too near, thank goodness or I might have _accidentally_ pricked him with one of my needles.

I pretend to not notice his presence for awhile, but can’t help but sneak a second peek. He looks so much like Gerbrecht when he pulls his knees up to his chin like that. It’s the childish look in his eye. The vulnerability of his position. It’s the reason I loved to just sit with my husband in comfortable wordless silence. Conversation would ruin the beauty of the moment.

Shaking away the memory, I follow my brother-in-law’s gaze to Schneewittchen. The plump little youngster dances in circles, romping around playfully with a…wait, is that a rabbit? I shake my head in disbelief as Grimhilt chuckles. “He’s got a way with animals, does he?”

“Yes,” I admit, proudly. “Yes, he does, though I don’t understand it. Even when I was a young maiden, I would not have attracted a unicorn. I scare away even the cats.”

This time he really laughs, and it’s an attractive one. I remember that from when we first met. So long ago… I actually was one of those young virgins of pure heart unicorns are so fond of. Or so legends say.

“Tell me, sister-in-law,” Grimhilt begins, breaking our comfortable silence, “why the name ‘Schneewittchen’? Snow…white?”

I nod, a distant smile gracing my lips, eyes glazing over as bittersweet memories flash before me. “His father…he, ah…” I laugh softly. “On the naming day, that silly man told me how he had made a wish. He said he’s wished our child would be ‘white as snow, black as ebony, with lips as red as blood.’” I glance at Grimhilt, noticing his amused expression.

“I’d laughed too, of course. Even so, I had to admit even then that our child was paler than most, especially for a newborn only a couple days old. As you can see now…” I incline my head towards Schneewittchen, currently running circles around the stone fountain, “the description is frighteningly accurate.”

Grimhilt doesn’t respond, but I know what he’s thinking. I’ve heard the word murmured in the halls. Even the errand boys of the village talk about it as they deliver the weekly supply of fish, bread, and fresh meat. The villager’s gossip about it I’m sure, whispering that horrible word amongst themselves. _Wechselbalg_. Changeling child.

Pausing, I hold the needle in midair, feeling…impossibly lost. I don’t want to talk about my husband or my beautiful _human_ baby. Not to this man. To anyone. I don’t want to talk about anything. Not the good memories. Not the bad memories. Not the strange memories. Nothing. I want to keep it all safe inside, away from all those to whom they don’t belong too.

A tell-tale sting burns at my eye.

If I keep this up I may cry, and I _cannot_ appear weak in front of Grimhilt. So taking a deep breath and forcing a smile, I turn my head to face him, refusing to hide. It’s best to state the obvious instead of skirting around the issue. “Gerbrecht always jokes he made an unknown blood pact with the faeries.” My voice is light and joking as if daring him to suggest it might be true.

“Oh?” Grimhilt gives me a strange look.

“He hurt himself on the birthing day,” I explain.

“Ah. Gerbrecht always has been a dreamer, no? Though I wonder why he should wish for such dark hair…”

I shrug, finally giving up on the sewing pretense. I set it aside. “He said to me ‘there couldn’t possibly be a more beautiful boy in all the world than our snow white, ebony-haired, blood lipped son.’ ”

“There are remedies, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For black hair. Or to make brown hair blond. Or gray hair. My favorite is the one with the headless, tail-less green lizard boiled in oil.” He snickers, shaking his head. “My aunt tried it once.”

“Your use of the word ‘once’ has not gone unnoticed. Nor has your knowledge of the subject.”

We both start laughing. At first a snort, then a chuckle, and before I know it I am _laughing_ and so is he, and then he stops. It’s so abrupt is startles me, and I watch as he frowns, watch as he twirls the apple in his palm by its stem. I watch as he tosses it up into the air and catches it again. “I should be going, my queen.” He gets up, stretching his legs. “I’m sorry to have intruded on you during such a difficult time.”

For some reason, I feel a pang of guilt, as though I had been rude to him all day instead of the other way around.

_Don’t be stupid, Adelhait._

With some difficulty I rise to my feet, legs asleep and skirts a mess. “Thank you, but I understand my position. You may stay for a night and leave in the morning.”

“No need for pleasantries, my lady. I know my presence here is noxious to you.”

Am I that transparent? And…is that really true?

“On the contrary,” I reply, “Your presence here is foreign, not noxious.” _Ob_ noxious, maybe. It irritates me and saddens me and reminds me over and over again that I am a virtually powerless widow. I am well aware that whether I like it or not, Grimhilt shall be named regent until Schneewittchen comes of age.

Furthermore, it is my duty to treat family with the proper respect.

“Surely, sister-” He protests, but I cut him off.

“I will phrase this differently, Gerbretcht. You will stay. Katharine will show you to your room. That is all.” I turn from him with an air of finality and call to my son. “Schneewittchen! Time for a nap, my love.”

He toddles in my direction, raising his arms for me to pick him up, so I do. Without sparing a glance, I glide past my brother-in-law. He says nothing and I refuse to look at him. On my way through the stone entrance, I stop, ordering Katharine to take our _guest_ to his room. It isn’t until I’m putting a complaining Schneewittchen down for his long-overdue nap, thinking over the day, that I realize the mistake I’d made. My face heats up.

I’d called him Gerbrecht.

After retaining control of the situation since the moment he dared step onto manor land, I’d stumbled, revealing my weakness. I’d called that thief of my child and my throne, that nobody well known only for his beauty and yet who dared resemble his elder brother, that nothing-nobleman still rumored among our servants for fiddling with the dark arts, I had called _that man_ after the name of my beloved husband.

“Mama?”

My sweet three-year-old stares up though dazed eyes, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

“Sleep, love,” I whisper softly, kissing his head.

I cannot face Grimhilt again, but I know I must. I cannot show my contempt or disdain, though I dearly wish I could. Because he so reminds me of Gerbrecht, and _that’s not fair_ because he ’s not  _he’s not him_. I hate him because I could so easily come to like him. Because I know I might be able to love him if I gave him a chance.

Because I’m not ready to give up what I’ve already lost.

I don’t call anyone in to watch over Schneewittchen. Instead, I sit by his bed, watching over him while he dreams. He looks so…dead. So like a corpse. His little body too pale for warm red blood to be running through his young veins.

_How I love you my little Wechselbalg child. I love you more than you will ever know._

I can’t hold it back anymore, the tears flowing freely down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, soaking into my skirt. I weep silently, quietly, noiselessly, but freely.

Then I decide to skip dinner. I won’t have to see that man again until morning.

There's no need to rush fate, wouldn’t you say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the Renaissance, blond hair, red hair, and the like were the preferred hair colors. Dark hair was not all that popular. 
> 
> However, pale skin was still considered desirable. The less you had to work, the richer were. So it stood to reason that the paler your skin was, the less you must have worked, therefore the richer you must be. However, this really only applies to women. I don't think men worried too much about it. :/


	3. Stepfather (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Finally! An update. Been experiencing some serious writers-block and trying to catch up with my studies. Didn't think Grimhilt's POV would be so hard to figure out.

There’s nothing like a wife who hates you.

Adelhait glares at me from across the table, pretty pink lips pulled into a tight, hard line. She has been like that since the beginning of the week when we got into a full-out battle consisting mostly of words and a few thrown chairs. There have been far too many of those lately.

I ignore her, choosing instead to answer Lord Claasen’s question.

“Why, naturally, sir,” I answer, voice intentionally pleasantly and disarming. “Schneewittchen is sleeping at this hour. Our beautiful lady of the manor here made sure of it. Did you not, darling?”

“Of course,” She replies shortly, obviously wanting to make this troublesome feast even harder on me.

“Lady of the _manor_?” Lady Claasen protests with a girlish giggle, seemingly playful and energetic despite her age. Perhaps the beer loosened her tongue? “My lord Grimhilt, I _do_ protest! She is the lady of the castle, wouldn't you say? And what a lovely, quaint old castle it is, sir!”

I smile agreeably. “Indeed, my lady. It has been passed down the family for generations.”

“No one lives in these anymore,” Lord Ebert points out, no small amount of disdain for me evident in his voice. “A manor is more comfortable.”

“Ah.” I nod. “And yet Schneewittchen seems fond enough of it.”

The ladies titter in approval. The lord of Käsehaus manor lets out a full belly laugh like he does every five minutes, the annoying man. Expectantly, I watch as the guests begin to lose interest in the feast, minds turning to other activities. It’s not long before the usual dancing and gaming begin and I pretend to take an interest, laughing with the lords and talking openly with their flirtatious wives. Adelhait is just as good at playacting, smiling graciously at the men, entertaining the women with small talk and gossip. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognize just how disturbing it is when she does this. Smart, untrusting, scornful Adelhait, gossiping like a fisherman’s wife, laughing when she feels absolutely no mirth.

She’s amazing at what she does, you know.

When the lords aren’t looking I dance and flirt freely, knowing full well how my appearance and supposed charms tend to effect women’s heads, especially those laced with too much beer right after a long feast. I have to say; it really works wonders when you need to get valuable information out of a tight-lipped Lord. Just have a nice talk with his Lady. Or the maids. I'm not picky that way.

The night passes slowly, ending around one in the morning. A few of the women, Adelhait included, have already retired to their rooms, and the rest of the guests soon follow them with an air of reluctance, except for the drunken handful the servants have to clear away along with the rest of the trash. The feast is _finally_ over.

It means the party is about to begin.

“Katharine,” I call softly into the hall.

A shadow shifts, revealing her presence. “My lord?” 

“You know what to do.”

“Yes, my lord.”

I wait patiently, counting away the minutes, knowing Katherine will do her job well. A half hour later she’s returned. I can’t see her in this windowless passage, but I recognize the presence beside me. A moment later her rough, warm hand presses a tiny glass vial into mine. It’s frigid, almost like a sliver of ice. Without a word I accept it, and she retreats back to the safety of the maid's quarters. Or so I assume.

I feel the need to light one of the wall torches, but continue down the hall. Though I can’t see my own feet, I’ve been down this way so many times I wouldn’t have to see my own _nose._ Navigating these halls has become second nature. It doesn’t take long to find the door I know is there and fumble around in the dark until I’ve got it unlocked and open, revealing a small, darkened room.

My place. The little piece of this confounded ancient castle that belongs only to me. It isn’t much, but it helps keep me sane.

I brush off any new dust that may have gathered on my books and shake the scrolls. My latest project stares me up in the face, covering at least half of the table’s surface. I’ve been working on it about three years now, long before my life took a turn both for worst and for better when Adelhait consented to remarriage.

It’s a giant looking-glass. A beautiful one.

If the stories are true, it’s a cursed one as well.

_Just the sort of thing that gets my blood pumping._

Soon the air is so saturated I can almost taste the burning incense, can almost see it. The scrolls rustle softly behind me, a phantom wind blowing lightly around the room. By the time I’m through it’ll be like I let lose a tornado in here.

Carefully, I slip the vial out from my pouch, taking a moment to admire the watery specter within. It stares right back at me with pale, colorless, dead eyes. The physical form of thirteen boring and unwanted guest’s life forces. A nonfatal amount, so they’ll wake up in the morning, but too small to fill the mirror altogether. My way of getting around the sacrificial part of this ceremony. _Even if Lord Ebert would probably never be missed._

“It’s going to be a long night,” I mutter aloud, heart racing in anticipation.

The following hours are spent fiddling away with bottles of holy water, burning incense, madly searching the scrolls for the correct chants, and desperately trying to not break anything. I watch intently as the spirit water from the vial condenses into vapor upon hitting the glass.

I’m so focused it takes a couple of minutes for the screams to register fully. _Schneewittchen’s_ screams. What is _he_ doing up at this time? It sounds like it’s coming from outside…

I stride across the room and pull back the curtains, surprised when sun’s rays burst into my room. Briefly basking in the morning’s weak light, I wonder how the night passed so quickly, but quickly abandon my train of thought when I spot movement in the courtyard below. It’s Adelhait, pushing the nursemaid away and picking up her oh so  _precious_  little boy. I suppose he must’ve fallen or tripped because she is shushing him, petting his head, comforting the little five-year-old in the way only a mother knows how.

She _is_ quite the mother, isn’t she?

Not much of a wife.

After a while, one gets sick of watching her dote on the child, cooing to him that he’s her ‘beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.’

_Isn’t it normal for mother’s to love their children, Grimhilt? What’s wrong with you?_

I’ve been watching for so long that the candles begin to go out. A quick knock at the door startles me out of my reverie.

It’s Katharine.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I apologize my lord, but the guests are eating.”

Oh. That’s right.

“And if I may, sir,” she continues. “You should clean up before sending them off.”

I snort. “Thank you, Katherine. What would I do without honest souls like you?”

She inclines her head, but not in time to hide her smile.

“I notice you know the way to my room quite well by now.”

I think she’s blushing. Mumbles something. I don’t bother asking her to repeat, just put the holy water back up and walk out the door. We travel together wordlessly, down the pitch black hall, parting soon afterward.

Cleaning up doesn‘t take long. I’m in the middle of buckling my shoes when _she_ barges in.

“Adelhait,” I greet, voice cold, looking back down at my shoe.

There isn’t a reply, so I go on to the next foot. That’s when I feel her hand graze my arm. I jerk my head up and find her sitting next to me on the side of the bed. She’s staring off at…nothing. Perhaps the wall. Perhaps not. “Don’t look so surprised,” she chides. “You were gone all night. I supposed you might be back by now.”

“How would you know how I look?” I retort. “You're not even looking at me.”

She turns, facing me head-on. Not for the first time I’m taken aback by the steadiness in her eyes. When she looks at you, there’s never a hint of wavering. Never a flinch. She seems completely unbreakable, like iron. Like _rock._ A diamond.

They do say the eyes are the windows into one’s soul.

“I,” she pauses, searching for the words. “Grimhilt, I need to apologize. It is not…proper, to argue with one’s husband as I did.” She’s choking on her words. I clench my jaw, embarrassed annoyance building up.

“Stop,” I order though gritted teeth. “You aren’t sorry. I don’t even know why you try.” I’ve finished my shoes, so I stand up, taking long strides towards the bedroom door.

Her next words hurt. “Because I need this to work!”

_Need, of course. Not want. Just need._

Silently, we walk together to the dinning hall, seething underneath these perfectly emotionless masks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that castles were pretty outdated by the the 15th century.


	4. Stepfather (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend to focus so much on Grimhilt, but his character development will end up being essential to the story's advancement. Sorry the chapter is so short. ): Hopefully the next one will be longer and and we can finish up with Grimholt's POV.

“Look!” Schneewittchen cries happily. Slashes of brilliant color, butterflies of all sizes and kinds, contrast against his pale skin and dark hair. My eyes widen. He is _covered_ in them. “They love me!” he gurgles, warm brown eyes shining with delight. “I love them!”

I nod in a daze, silently watching the bizarre display, but Adelhait stirs immediately.

“My love, what is all this?” She doesn’t look as worried as she really should. It is almost like, some days, she completely ignores that there is something _very wrong_ with her child.

“Mama, look!” Schneewittchen repeats, bouncing up and down. “They love me! See? Look!”

The multihued little creatures don’t seem to mind the motion. Instead of fluttering off like any intelligent being would, they crawl lazily around on the little boy’s body, walking about in circles and twisted lines, some pumping their wings, others with their’s neatly folded.

Adelhait, shakes her head, a radiant smile gracing her already beaming face. “They are _most_ charming, my love.”

“Yes!” Schneewittchen exclaims, “Charming! Be-u-ti-ful!”

“Be-u-ti-ful,” by the way, is his latest ‘most favorite word.’ Last week it was “fairest,” and the week before that it was “ _schifffahrt_.”

Suddenly, and without warning, the butterflies take to the air en masse, all flying off in different directions, now only retreating swirls of vibrant oranges and blues and yellows. Schneewittchen runs after one and then another, succeeding in catching nothing. He returns to his mother, face fallen in defeat, mumbling something about ‘losing’ and ‘gone’ and ‘be-u-ti-ful.’ Adelhait takes him in her arms, resting his dark head against her bosom. Her eyes are closed and her face bright. “You are beautiful, love. The fairest of all.”

He pulls away to look her in the face, expression oddly severe for someone so young and carefree. “Even more than the butterflies?” he inquires doubtfully.

Adelhait chuckles, sitting him down in her lap. “Schneewittchen, you are the fairest of them all.”

_Of course he is. The child probably isn’t even human._

As if sensing my thoughts, Adelhait turns to look at me, eyes hard and knowing. Almost scathing. “Schneewittchen,” she says, without sparing him a glance.

“Yes, mama?”

“Papa, he taught you _verstecken_ , yes?”

“Yes!” He sits up to look where I’m sitting, pointing his pale dead little finger at me. “You always find me!” he proclaims, somehow even overjoyed at his, so far, near-perfect losing streak. “Always, mama!”

“I would expect so,” Adelhait replies, hidden meanings lining every word…like usual. She raises an eyebrow in my direction which I pointedly ignore.

“You’ll get better in time,” I assure him. “And there are so many other games.”

Schneewittchen giggles and I just _can’t take it anymore._ That child is entirely too joyful, too innocent, and too cheery. No one can be that pure and angelic, especially not at the age of five. He should be getting into trouble, testing the limits, learning about the world. Without even meaning to, I shoot a dirty look towards Adelhait and start back towards the courtyard, leaving both of them to wonder at my abrupt departure.

_That little, perfect, monster child. He’s not natural. He’ll become a menace when he’s older, I’m sure of it…_

I lean against the well, directing a withering glare towards the garden arch, and then look away. _There’s no use thinking about this. I’m overreacting. Schneewittchen is incredibly annoying, and Adelhait even more so, but that doesn’t mean I…_

A couple of doves land above me, roosting on top the well’s roof. I peer up at them, and they do the same. “You’re stupid; you know that?” I ask. Thankfully, there isn’t an answer. “I should make you all into taxidermies.”

 _I have a new word for you, little_ _monster_ , I think, opening the door and starting down the hall. _Wechselbalg._

I grumble irritably and walk away, spending the rest of the day away in my room, tinkering away on the looking-glass.

***      *      ***

“My lady will be expecting me by now.”

I don’t answer, just sort of nod. Whether she can see or not, I wouldn’t know; it’s too dark. The sheets rustle, and I listen as she gathers her clothes off the floor. There’s a long pause after she finishes dressing, so long that for a moment I think she’s about to tell me something, but she leaves without another word.

Katharine the Woman of Few Words. That’s one of the things I appreciate most about her. She’s not stupid, and she keeps to herself. How much ambition she harbors, though, that’s harder to tell.

Who knows. I’ll think about it later. I need to catch a couple hours of sleep.

_She’s never used these little encounters to blackmail me…_

I turn over again, facing the door. _She hasn’t_ yet _Gimhilt,_ I remind myself.  _‘Yet’ is the key word here._

Willing my muscles to loosen and mind to clear, I begin to drift off to wonderful, restful…

_You trust that girl._

_No, shut up, I’m sleeping right now…_

_You dimwit._

I growl in annoyance, and toss around, waiting for sleep to take me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***** _Schifffahrt_ \-- German compound noun which basically means "journey on a ship."


	5. Wishing Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...it's been a long time since my last update. Very sorry if you've been waiting! I wrote this strange chapter a couple nights ago while listening to dark celtic music. Not sure if it's quite how I wanted it to turn out, but oh well! It's my first time writing from Schneewittchen's POV.

“Want to know a secret?” Mama whispers to me. “Promise not to tell?”

I nod, eager to know. I love secrets. Any secrets.

“Follow me,” she says, reaching out for my hand and I surrender mine to hers immediately. Her hands are big and warm and much softer than Katherine’s, so smooth and sometimes sweaty, but I love them in every way. Sometimes he likes to squeeze my hand, and I always squeeze hers back, almost like we have a secret language. At night when I was very little, she would take my hand and kiss my head after she thought I had fallen asleep. I never knew when she left since I always fell asleep for real after that and she would be gone by the time I woke up.

Mama pulls me along under the archway and over to the courtyard well. “This is the secret, my fair one.”

“The well, mama? Everyone knows about the well.”

“No, no!” she laughs. I love her laugh. “This is a _wishing_ well. That’s the secret.”

Mama smiles at me before looking back at the well, letting go of my hand to lean against the walls and peering over the side. It’s so hot out, and I can see the sweat gathering on mama’s neck, shining in the sunlight. A few little stray strands of her hair get caught up in it and matted, but that’s alright I think. Mama is beautiful ( _it’s a good word, bea-u-ti-ful_ ).

My mother is the most beautiful creature in the world, you see. The most beautiful woman to ever, ever live! She is tall, and her hands are big. Her knuckles are whiter than the rest of her hand which is obviously perfect. I’ve counted and tried to remember from when I was smaller, and I think I remember how many dots are on her skin. One dot behind her ear, four on her back, one on the side of her hand, three on her legs, and one special one between her neck and her shoulder. That last one is special because it stands up and she called it a mole. Gretchen, the little kitchen wench, told me the others are freckles.

“Come, darling,” she says, lifting me up to sit on the wishing well wall, hugging me from behind. I can’t move, but I can peer over the edge and into the water below. It looks cold down there. Cold and wet and dark and dank. What if I fell into it? What if we both fell in? Could we swim down there?

I remember playing in a creek far away from here where the water was cool, and the mud squeezed up in between my toes while little fish darted past, carried away by the current. A little water creature brushed past my leg, but nothing would stop. Nothing would stop rushing, rushing, rushing, past me, past me, past me, trying to sweep me away with them like everything else. I would have gone, I think, but something kept me in place. A warm weight, like a hand. Maybe it was my mother or perhaps it was the faerie folk. Or maybe it never happened, and it was little more than a dream?

But I don’t think we could swim in the well. I think we would drown like the lady deer in the lake. It was getting dark when I spotted her, but she was there. She was staring up at me, shot through the neck, dark, stale blood floating about as if refusing to mix with the water. All I thought then was how she got there. Did someone put her there? Her long, elegant neck stretched upwards, struggling to keep the sky in her sight. Was that the last thing she wanted to see, or was she just trying to swim back up, fighting to take another breath? Longing to stay up _here_? And yet there she was in the world below, unable to fight back as the little fishkind nibble upon her flesh. Maybe she’s still there even now. Someday she will fade away though, and then she will become part of the lake, so what does it matter?

What would mama and I look like drowning, I wonder? We could live here in the well, all alone below the water where nobody would be allowed but mother and myself. It could be a secret. Our secret. And we could keep it forever until the castle crumbles away and the well dries up, and its roof rots off, and our skeletons are left to sit there by ourselves staring up at the sky.

“This is a magic place,” mama tells me. “Make a wish into the well, Schneewittchen.”

“Is that all you have to do?”

“Yes. If you hearing it echoing, it means your wish will soon come true.”

“Right away?”

“No,” mama sighs, shaking her head, turning my around to face her. “But someday.”

“But mama, why don’t they come true now?”

“Because that’s the way it is. You have to prove you’re worthy of the wish before it happens.” A bead of sweat begins to slide down her neck, and I follow it with my eyes, watching to see where its journey will end. I wonder what it tastes like. Salty, like mine?

“Why?” I ask, but mama doesn’t respond. Instead, she hugs me tighter, kissing my head. “Do you have a wish, my pretty boy?” she asks me.

“I wish…” _For two skeletons in a well, the big one holding the little one’s hand **and no one ever, ever, ever can undo it** because their bones are so old they’ve grown together._ “…for us always, always, always be together, mama. I love you!”

She hugs me so tight I really can’t breathe. “Me too,” she whispers and sets me back down on the ground. “Shall we go in?”

The castles stares at me, full of whisperings and dark halls, people slipping past you and hiding things you want to know. Stares and smiles and the painted faces of the dead because it’s not enough that the living have to look at you. A maid and a groom think they’re alone in a room, never knowing something watches them from a few feet away. It you’re little and small and strange and quiet, dark places are supposed to be your friend but if you’re alone there why make friends with it? _No. No. I don’t want to go in._ “Alright, mama.”

A flash catches my eye, and I look up, mama following my gaze. It’s papa. I think he used to like me once. He stares down at us through his window, head held high and magnificent ( _Magnificent. Magnificent. What a lovely word_ ) but he hardly looks at me, he’s staring at mama. Of course, I think, who wouldn’t? “That awful man,” mama mutters, dragging me along, back inside.

Mama is stronger than me, but not more so than the maids. They’re always fretting over her lately, but Katherine is the worst. She’s the first to reprimand her for going out (“You’re ill, m’lady! Do not continue to do this, please!”) and as usual, they take me by the hand and my mother by the other, dragging me away from her and her away from me. They are hard people, I think. Hard and tough but ‘they mean well.’ Mama says that. That ‘they mean well.’ She cares for Katherine the most I think because she’s always saying ‘that girl really does means well’ whenever she is harsh or rough with me or her or anyone.

So I sit here in my room and on my bed wondering what mama is doing right now. Perhaps, if I crawled out of bed tonight and snuck into her chambers I could wake her and ask her ‘do you want to be with me forever?’ And she’ll say yes of course, so then I could tell her about my wish, maybe? We can live under the water in the wishing well. You don’t have to wait to be worthy of your wish, mama. You can make it come true!

Would she like my wish? We could stare at the sky, watching the clouds roll past us, always taking on new shapes right after you figure out what it looks like. I’ll tell her that her skeleton will be just as beautiful as her, so she wouldn’t have to worry about that. She won’t sweat either if she is surrounded by water. She won’t have to be dragged away by the maids, or locked up in her room, or told not to venture ( _venture, venture, venture, venture…_ ) outside. We could be there all the time, and no one would ever know or ever, ever find us.

No, probably… probably that’s not true. A scullery maid coming to draw water would find us there and let Katherine know. ( _I saw the queen and the boy today in the well, ma’am. They look quite happy ma’am. Wouldn’t it be a pity to drag them out, ma’am…_ ) They could see how beautiful and strange we appear below, eyes staring intently at the world above, but unable to truly see. Katharine could wonder what it was like, the moment we breathed in the water instead of the air, became waterthings instead of earththings. Maybe she would join us since Katherine isn’t so bad really and mother quite likes her.

But I’d rather it was just mother and me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My prompt for this chapter were the first few lines of the Wishing Well song from the film ("Do you wanna know a secret?/ Promise not to tell?/ We are standing by a wishing well..."). Thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, and please comment to let me know if Schneewittchen seemed a little psycho to you? It wasn't intended but somehow he seems a bit mentally unstable...


	6. Stepfather III; Confirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, you all thought I was dead, didn't you? A two-year long hiatus but I'm back with a nice somewhat longer chapter so I hope that makes up for it a little bit... 
> 
> Enjoy. (=

Schneewittchen grasps my hand tightly, pulling me farther and farther ahead towards the forest. “Come on, papa!”

Huntsmen guard us in a wide circle, one reaching out his hand to steady the queen. Adelhait lingers far behind, struggling even to keep up, slowed down by her illness. 

“Papa, hurry, hurry!” Schneewittchen cries, exuberant. I try to smile. Try to like the child. He has not, after all, done anything to me to deserve my disdain or hatred. It is Adelhait who truly deserves that.

Ahead, the trees tower far over any house or castle. They are majestic, ancient, and proud, guardians of a mysterious world, reminders of the days of myth and legends when gods and mortals walked together upon the earth. Their branches stretch far and wide, dense with leaves. Animals scurry through the trees and all around the forest. The deep woods are a silent, secretive place. Schneewittchen lets go of my hand, running towards it, not a tinge of fear in his joyous laughter, almost as if he were returning home.

I suppose it makes sense. Gerbrecht loved the wild places too, always preferring them to the musty halls and dark rooms of our home. “Let’s run off!” he’d whisper to me excitedly as we relaxed under the shade of the garden’s trees, two wild youngsters ready for adventure. Most of the time I would give in and go along with him, running through the wild places, swimming in the freezing lakes, spying on the animals who called the forest their home.

My older brother was a good companion, a strong boy, and a brave brother. I looked up to him, idolized him when I was young, but we were very different. While he loved the outside, I preferred to hide away buried in a book behind the thick walls of the castle. He would laugh at me, insisting I had to experience the world instead of reading about it, but he rarely asked what I was reading, so I rarely told him. The older I got the stranger my reading materials became and stranger my choice of companions.

“You disappear in the middle of the night,” he once confronted me, “I followed you Grimhilt. You went to the village. To the witch man’s hut.”

I’d been angry then, had protested, upset at the invasion of privacy. If he could run off to the woods why could I not run off to the village? The old man would tell me stories hinted at in my books, talk about the old ways. He spoke of fae folk and dwarves, of curses and wizards, of magic.

“You have magic in you, young prince. There is a sliver of magic in your soul.”

“Surely not. I am not an elf.”

“No, you are human, through in through. No, what you are is a young sorcerer without knowledge, without spells to cast.”

“Can you teach me?”

“I only meddle young one. I am no great wizard. Besides, you have not been Awakened yet. You must have your Awakening. Feel the magic in your soul.”

The old man only shrugged when I pressed further. He could not help me. I began to wander the forest myself after that, without Gerbrecht’s instance and often without him at all. Perhaps what drew him to the wild places was the same thing that drew me to my books. The old stories spoke of the wild as if they were sacred, perhaps even the place from which all magic drew its source. It was only a theory, but it was something. Sometimes I could swear I had caught a glimpse of a specter or a light or heard something like music, but could never manage to find the source. Eventually, even my dreams began to journey across the river and into the mysterious forest.

Mother and father worried at first when I began leaving home for long periods of time, but soon they became used to my absences. I scoured the provinces, mingling with royalty in the day, searching for a teacher by night. There were few souls brave enough to practice the forbidden arts -let alone teach them- than I had hoped, but far more than I ever would have guessed. Magic, spellcasting, sorcery- it became my passion. “You have the makings of a powerful sorcerer,” many of my teachers told me.

As I studied magic abroad, my brother studied how to rule. The older we grew, the less we saw or heard of each other, but when I came home, he always welcomed me warmly, gathering me in his arms for a bone-crushing hug. (“Stay the month, Grimhilt! Help distract me from court etiquette, eh? Let’s run off to the wood again for old time’s sake, yeah? What about it?”)

One year I returned home to find the village and the castle in the midst of celebration, rejoicing over my brother’s wedding. That is when I first met Adelhait. She was pleasant enough when he introduced me to his young bride. She was younger and softer back then, a warmer version of herself, but just as proud and impenetrable. You could see it in her eyes. I didn’t think much of it back then. A queen must be ready for anything, nigh unflinching, after all. Besides, she was rarely cross. It was a love-match between the two as much as it was a political one. She blushed when Gerbrecht smiled at her, took her hand, or kissed her cheek. I thought little of their union. I had known something like this would happen sooner or later. He was to be Lord of the castle after all, and that would require an heir. I, however, being the youngest son, had no such expectations. I had no kingdom to rule, had little money to spend, no title to command respect, and had no heir I was expected to produce. I had freedom. My brother had duties. One of those duties being this insufferably innocent child.

Even now as Schneewittchen sings and dances around the meadow, hand reaching out towards the forest, he is the very picture of childish glee. A deer peers out at him through the trees, following the boy’s antics with unreadable eyes. I am beginning to suspect the boy is probably a powerful sorcerer; more powerful than me. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but something does bother me. _He_ bothers me. Why does he bother me so much? Maybe it is because Schneewittchen looks like a painting, every inch of him perfect, without flaw.

What’s more, he looks nothing like the tanned, rusty-haired Gerbrecht I knew so well. Certainly, the boy looks nothing like Adelhait, all blond-haired and blue-eyed. In fact, I can’t seem to place his appearance among any relatives I have met or whose portraits now hang within the castle walls. It’s suspicious. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Adelhait had an affair and covered it up, but that doesn’t seem her style.

“Papa, the birds say you can’t come here.”

Schneewittchen is standing in front of me now, a raven perched on his shoulder. For once he looks grim and serious. His body is rigid as if making a wall with his body, prepared to stop me from going any further. Annoying.

“And why is that?” I ask, forcing a smile. Children say odd things and play make-believe after all.

“The Old Ones are upset with you.”

“Is that so?” I attempt to rustle his black locks affectionately, but the raven moves to bite me. I retract my hand.

“You were Awakened wrong.”

That finally catches my attention. Visions of that night so long ago flicker through my mind. Shining and frigid, the moonlight showing off the winterscape. Blood trickling slowly down the ancient tree, staining the virgin snow a deep red.

“You shouldn’t have done that Grimhilt,” a voice speaks, low and deep, coming forth out of Schneewittchen’s cherry red mouth. His eyes are dull and glassy. I glance nervously back towards Adelhait, steadily approaching us. She can’t be allowed to hear hear this. Schneewittchen is channeling something or someone. Whether the dead or the living I don’t know, but I take him by the hand, ignoring the furious raven, and slip into the forest.

“Grimhilt…”

I ignore the voice.

“The forest whisper of your deeds, it has stood for thousands of years, but the trees they never forget...”

“Shut up!” I hiss, dragging Schneewittchen’s body along, growing limper every passing moment. Soon I have to take him in my arms. When I’m far enough away that the huntsmen and Adelhait would have to search at least ten minutes before they find me, I set him down, resting with his back against a great tree.

“What business do you have with me?” I demand. “Who are you?”

“Do not enter this place again young sorcerer. Your magic taints the air around you, the ground beneath you, everything you touch. It soaks into the roots of the trees, and they cry in agony.”

“Why did you never speak before?”

“Leave now. The creatures will hunt you. Never set foot here again.”

I take Schneewittchen’s head by the scalp, tilting him up to look at me in the eye.

“Who are you?”

This time when Schneewittchen opens his mouth a new voice comes out. And old, husky, crone’s voice, “Did you really think it would go unnoticed, little princeling?” The voice devolves into maniacal cackling.

I drop him as if I had just been burnt, and he whacks his head against the trunk of the tree. Hard. “Papa!” He cries out in pain, his mind and voice restored. 

“Come Schneewittchen.” I grab hold of his hand, pulling him to his feet. We run, and I almost think I can see the trees shifting in front of us as if they are planning to cage us in. Suddenly, Schneewittchen takes the lead, darting through here and ducking through there, only slowing down once the meadow is in sight. Adelhait is running towards us, the stupid woman. We slip out of the clutches of the forest and Schneewittchen runs into her embrace. He looks understandably shaken, but he does not cry. He just glances back at me, his dark eyes confused and anxious, before he faints without warning in his mother’s arms.

I refuse to answer Adelhait’s angry questions, pushing past her on my way back to the castle. 

“Bring him back to the castle,” I command the huntsmen. Adelhait shrieks as they wrestle the limp little body out of her feeble grasp.

I know what needs to be done.

 

***

 

“Bring the holy water,” the priest instructs, “And quickly. If once the devil has found his way into a man’s heart it will only be a matter of time before it happens again.”

Adelhait’s screams of protests can be heard from the other side of the door. “No! How dare you! That is my _son_!” She grunts and the sounds of a struggle ensue.

“Grimhilt,” she cries out, voicing growing even louder as they drag her away, “stop this!”

“I’m very sorry Father,” I apologize to the wrinkled little man in robes. “My late brother’s widow is very... high strung.”

He nods. “No, no, I am quite used to it. Mothers get so temperamental during the ritual, it’s customarily best to remove them from the premises.”

An aid, some other member of the clergy, hurries over with a silver dish which he quickly hands to his superior.

Schneewittchen is quiet in his chair, his head to tilted to the side and still unconscious when the priest sprinkles him with the holy water. His eyes fly open and he screams, knocking the chair over in a rush to escape.

He screams for his mother, clawing at his face, and the clergymen rush to his side, to restrain him. One of them backs away with a startled jump.

“Father,” he says, “His... _His face_ , Father.”

The priest shuffles over to inspects my nephew and I follow suit. Wherever the holy water has touched Schneewittchen’s exposed skin there is now a smoldering burn, no larger than a droplet. Several members of the clergy make the sign of the cross, muttering prayers to ward off evil.

“Is...this usual, Father?” I inquire, trying to keep my wits about me. Schneewittchen is calling to me, begging me to save him and to make them stop.

The priest’s wrinkled face is grim. “No my son,” he replies. “I’ve not seen this before.”

I had read about this. If we were only expelling a demon or spirit or some other fae creature from the body the holy water would help make the body less habitable to evil, pressuring the thing to leave, but it shouldn’t harm the body itself. Holy water is detestable to creatures of myth, to fae, to witches, to the dark creatures of the forest and lakes, to the spirits…

It’s true.

I was right. The rumors are true.

I’m not crazy. _Adelhait you bastard…_

The priest is getting right into the exorcism now as his aids hold a struggling Schneewittchen down, the others securing him to the chair with a thick hemp rope. The boy’s high-pitched screams ring in my ear as I slip out of the room. With any luck, they’ll kill the imposter.

I charge towards Adelhait’s room, finding a number of maids standing guard. They unlock the door for me and I storm in. Katherine is tending to the queen, whispering words of reassurance

"Leave," I order her. She obeys with a short curtsy and a quick pat on Adelhait’s shoulder.

“Well if it isn’t my dear husband come to visit me,” Adelhait remarks from her bed, sunken eyes just as dangerous as they were before her mysterious illness. Her body, though, is too weary to move. The long walk and her struggle earlier have drained all the remaining energy from her limps. She bares her teeth when I step closer. “What have you done to my son?!”

“Schneewittchen,” I pronounce the stupid name as if it were a curse. “The holy water _burned_ him, Adelhait.”

She looks like she wants to get a word in edgewise, but I won’t let her. “That sweet child, would he even be able to step foot in a church?” I ask, tone mockingly sympathetic. “Does he cower at the sight of a crucifix?”

“How dare you.”

“Face it,” I spit back. “That thing is not your child. Your son, my nephew, the child of your husband, my brother, Gerbretcht’s own flesh and blood, is out there somewhere or is already dead and yet you... you go right ahead raising that creature they left behind as if it were the real prince! You turn a blind eye and ignore everything that happens around him. Every strange thing that happens you pretend not to notice it. I _know_ you know it. I know that you know that he isn’t Gerbrecht’s son.”

“ _Shut up._ ” Her teeth are clenched, her eyes flaming. She attempts to rise from her bed, but her body teeters dangerously. She holds a hand to her head and grasps the bedpost tightly, trying to regain her balance. If she could get up, I know violence would be in order.

“Honestly,” I scoff, “don’t you think it’s quite the coincidence that your dear dead husband died of the same ‘mysterious ailment’ you are suffering now? You are _dying_ , Adelhait and it’s _that thing’s_ fault!”

She tries to interject, to do something to make me stop but I won’t let her.

“You’ve known all along about that child, haven’t you?” I turn my back to her, examining her room, walk around it, picking up whatever catches my eye first. It’s surprisingly scarce for a queen. “What happened when you tried to christen him, I wonder? What did you tell Gerbrecht? Where you awake when the creatures came and took your real baby? Is that why you have him recite the elf prayer at night because you’re afraid the demons will take him back one day?”

There is no answer. There is no indignant explosion of accusations. No rage.

“I can have you burned, Grimhilt,” she says, frighteningly calm, her cold, hard diamond eyes betraying no emotion. No soul. “Do you really think I’m that stupid?"

“I’m sure I don't know what you mean.”

“I know what you do at night, all alone. I know you are consulting with spirits and practicing forbidden arts. I can have you burned as a witch and I will if you dare to even think of threatening my son again.”

With a raise of an eyebrow, I wave my hand dismissively at the suggestion. “What witnesses are there to such deeds, my dear? I am, for all intents and purposes, innocent of any wrongdoing.”

She laughs all of a sudden, dark and humorless. “I know about Katherine, you arrogant bastard. I will have them torture her until they get a confession and then you, Grimhilt, you will no longer be a thorn in my side.”

My blood runs cold. I study Adelhait for a long moment, taking in the sight of her frail form, the long blond hair once so lush now limp and stringy. Lifeless. She is a husk. A shadow of my brother’s beloved young bride. 

“You would have _me_ , your only reliable way to hold power, _me_ who does not even expect you to even grace my bed at night, you would have _me killed_ just to protect the very thing that is _killing you_.”

“I love my son more than I need you.”

Well that does change things, doesn’t it? I turn to leave.

“Grimhilt? Grimhilt, don’t you dare leave when I’m--”

_No worries my dear, I will be back shortly. It seems you can finally be of some use to me since I am clearly of no more use to you._


	7. Stable Boy

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop snatching the gooseberries to make pies for the maids I’ll whoop your backside so hard you won’t be able to stand for another week.” Katherine glares down at me, eyes sharp and face blazing red from chasing me from the kitchen to the great hall.

“Sorry,” I mumble half-heartedly, handing back the basket of stolen goods. Katherine snatches it with one hand and boxes my left ear with the other.

“ _Devil_ ,” she growls under her breath as she checks the berries for damage. “Stupid little fae boy. Just what kind of prince are you trying to be, Schneewittchen? You are _royalty_ , so why not try acting like it?”

“Oh, but I’m not,” I reply with a smile, skip off before she can box my other ear. “I’m a stable boy!”

The maids who have gathered unseen in the adjoining hallway giggle as I rush past them, used to this sort of scene by now. Gretchen, a scullery maid about two years my senior runs after me. I don’t stop for her until I’ve escaped the suffocating castle, until I have made it to the gardens where my mother’s memory is strongest. Gretchen stops a few paces behind and doubles over, two long blond braids almost brushing the ground. She heaves a series of great big breaths before trying to speak again. “Schneewittchen,” she pants, “I forgot to tell you…!”

My ears perk up a bit. Was something the matter? Was something finally happening? Something new? Grimhilt always has Katherine keep such a close eye on me it is hard to escape to the outside anymore. My only real home left is this garden. I haven’t managed to visit the forest in nearly a year. For all intents and purposes, I am under house arrest until Grimhilt decides whether or not to keep me around.

“Tonight the youngest Princess of Valois is arriving with her party,” Gretchen explains. “They’ll be dining in the great hall and spending the night. She’s on her way to another province, only stopping to rest, but it’s exciting anyhow, don’t you think?”

New people…

No one ever visits anymore. I give Gretch a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re a little angel, did you know that?” She blushes furiously, but I’m off again, ready to seek an audience with Grimhilt. If I beg long and hard enough, he may let me dine as one the royal family. Keeping up appearances and all that.

Unfortunately, Katherine, still angry from earlier is waiting for me at the doors, a pail in hand. “Aw,” I groan. “ _Please_ , Katherine? I need to ask papa about tonight…”

“Oh, really?” She stops me short, shoving the bucket into my hands. “ _I don’t think so_. I think you’re going to clean these steps, then you’re going to muck out the stables like a proper stable hand, and then since you can’t seem to keep out of the kitchens or the food, you’re going to report directly to the cook to help prepare for tonight’s banquet.”

“But I’m the prince. You said so yourself.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re the prince?”

“Last I checked?”

“Last I checked you are the disgraced bastard son of a dead queen.”

Gretchen peeks at us from behind the garden arch. “And you!” Katherine points at her. “If I catch you helping him, so help me I will beat your little blond ass into next week and throw your entire family into the dungeon to rot.” Gretchen squeaks, dashing back inside, presumably towards the kitchens. “And let all your giggling friends know they’re not safe either!” she yells after her fleeing figure.

Katherine is not a woman of empty threats. I take the pail.

“I’m not a faerie child, you know,” I mutter, shuffling dejectedly over to the well.

Katherine raises a single brow, opening the doors. “Then what exactly are you, Schneewittchen?” she asks and walks away before I have a chance to reply. The doors slam behind her.

I’ve heard the stories of course. They say the real child of mother and father was stolen away by the faerie folk and replaced with me, a _wechselbalg_. They say I will never be recognized as the true heir because I’m not the true prince. Not even a human.

What does it really matter though? I don’t care about this horrible place. After mother passed away all those years ago, so did any interest in my princehood. There is no reason to stay here now that she is gone and I wouldn’t still be here if Katherine wasn’t always spying on me with her underlings.

The maids are sweet, but few of them can truly be trusted. Katherine holds far too much power over them for that. They have their families to think of.

Katherine isn’t altogether a bad person, you know. I know she loved my mother at least a little bit. Even if she can be a rotten person, you can’t be all that bad if you loved mother. Grimhilt must not have loved mother. Or me. I cannot help but feel something off about him the older I get. The more I think back on my childhood and how he and mother acted around each other, the more the suspicions about him grow in my mind. 

Before he came, before the priests and the holy water and the hours of ritualistic torture, I never once suspected that I might not be mother’s child. She shielded me from any such talk. It was that awful religious rite, that godforsaken exorcism, which gave credence to unfounded rumors about mother’s fidelity and my birth. Even Gretchen probably thinks I am some kind of elf creature, or worse, that mother was an adulteress. Things that were once whispered between uncontented villagers are now socially acceptable to speak about it broad daylight, and it is Grimhilt that allowed it to become this way.

It would be harmless if all that was at stake was my inheritance, but _wechselbalgs_ have been known to be murdered by mobs, discarded by their own mothers, thrown into lakes to drown as infants, even burned at stake. People are fickle and afraid, one moment enchanted by pagan ways and the next moment burning with a fiery Christian passion. I would much rather risk my chances out in the wild among the animal folk than trust in the goodness of people, and so I will bide my time. One day they will slip up and when that day comes they shan’t ever be able to find me again. As long as I lay low, play the contented stable boy, never appear to challenge Grimhilt, I have a chance.

As I scrub the steps, the birds gather around, chirping bits of gossip and chattering on about a ‘blue stranger.’ At least that’s what I think they aresaying. It can be hard to understand them sometimes. They speak so quickly and there are times when I think I can’t make sense of their chirps at all, the way everyone else seems not to. I know they speak to me though and they know I can understand them.

 _Nightingale!_ They shriek shrilly, _There’s a procession headed this way, Nightingale!_

“I know,” I answer, disappointment flooding over me. “What goes on in the forest?”

_Come with us to the forest._

“I can’t. The human folk here won’t let me leave.”

_Then fly!_

“You know I can’t fly.”

_Soar high above the castle walls, above the river, feel the wind in your feathers! Sprout your wings and fly with us!_

I ignore them, humming to myself. They like to go on tangents about the joys of flight. They can go on for hours at a time if you let them, and today is no different. Their excitement transforms into a frenzy as they psyche each other up until most of them take off into the air, leaving only a handful of mourning doves to keep me company. Sometimes, I wonder if their voices are all in my head.

 _Sing for us, Nightingale! Tell us humankind stories!_ The remaining doves coo.

“Go ask a real nightingale.”

_You are the mankind nightingale…_

I shake my head, laughing. “I will never understand why you like to hear my singing.”

_Sing! Sing! Sing! Sing!_

I laugh and continue to hum away, scrubbing away at the dirt and grime. If they want me to sing, I need a drink, and I’m not sipping from the filth in that pale. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm and stand up, strolling over to mother’s well. It’s covered in dainty spring flowers, pale pink and in full bloom. The flock follows me over.

“Want to know a secret?”

_Ohhhh yes! Yes!_

“Promise not to tell?”

_Swear to the fairy queen!_

“We are standing by a _wishing well_ …”

A tune begins to take form in my mind as I lazily string a couple lyrics together.

“ _Make a wish into the well,_  
_That’s all you have to do._  
_And if you hear it echoing,_  
_Your wish will soon come true_...”

My mind wanders back years and years, back to the first of many wishes I made into this well, the memory of two fused skeletons flitting through my head. ( _I wish for us to always be together mama!_ )

“ _I’m wishing for the one I love to find me today_ …” I sing into the well, watching as my feathered friends jump in surprise at the echo. Eventually, at a loss for lyrics, I let my song devolve into wordless melodies.

 _Stranger!_ The doves cry all of a sudden, starling me out of my reverie. _On the wall!_

I stop mid-song, scanning the area quickly, spotting the single out of place white feather attached to a blue hat, upturned nose, and hazel eyes peeking over the wall nearest the town. We are silent for a good long while, just watching the each other, wary. Curious.

“You sing prettily,” the figure says at long last, heaving their body up over the wall, which is no small feat in a heavy dark blue gown and scarlet cape. It’s a curly haired little girl, a few years my junior. Thirteen perhaps. She cocks her head to one side, looking me up and down.

“I am Floriane. Who, pray tell, are you?”

“I’m a stable boy, my lady.”

She rolls her eyes, brushing some stray leaves off her intricately embroidered skirt.

“ _That_ is obvious enough,” she replies, placing slender little hands upon her hips. “But what is your _name_?”

“Schneewittchen.”

She gives a little breathy snort, making a show of looking me up and down. “How fitting.”

“You’re the princess of Valois.”

“Also obvious.” She wanders around the courtyard, peeking into the garden before passing it by for the wishing well.

“Not that obvious,” I counter. “A princess doesn’t generally climb over the wall to enter a castle, now does she?”

She grins widely, leaning over the well towards me. Her eyes staring up into mine. “Imprudent for a stable hand, aren’t you boy?”

I mirror her stance, staring back. On second look, her eyes are a bit more aquamarine than hazel. “Perhaps,” I reply with a shrug.

“Are you magic?”

What? I jerk away. “What sort of thing is that to ask someone?”

She shrugs, tugging at her curls, eyes focused on the mourning doves gathered behind me. She nods her head in their direction. “The birds aren’t afraid of you.”

“I do nothing to cause them fear.”

She seems to accept that answer, quickly moving onto something new. “I have never been inside a castle before.”

“Well, there aren’t that many left anymore.”

“That makes you lucky. Is it nice here?”

Dark hallways and malicious whispers. Eyes always watching. “No.”

She doesn’t hear my reply, having already skipped over to explore the garden. “Have you lived here long, Schneewittchen?” she calls from somewhere inside.

Katherine can beat me all she wants, but it doesn’t matter. This is one of the only new people I’ve seen in years. I follow after her. “All my life,” I call back to her, looking all about me. She is nowhere to be found. “Where are you, my lady?”

A giggle. I know this game.

Around the gardens, through the courtyard, and back again we go. I chase her fleeing figure as she continually finds new and better places to hide. Eventually we both collapse, sweaty messes under one of the garden’s gnarly trees. Apple blossoms bloom overhead. I venture a glance at Floriane and shake my head in mock disappointment. Her gown has been torn along the edges and is muddied in various places. “Aren’t you a sight to behold, my lady.” She swats my arm but seems pretty tuckered out. Her eyes are closed as she rests against the bark of the truck, humming contently.

“When will your escorts arrive?” I venture at last, receiving a frown in return.

“Soon. I ran off on my steed because they were too slow and boring and old but they’ll be searching the whole place once they get here.”

I sigh. It was nice while it lasted. I stand up, offering my hand to help the little princess up, which she accepts with all the graces of a well-born lady. Floriane may be a wild child, but it is no doubt she knows court etiquette inside and out. “Come. Let us gather your horse before he wanders too far.”

“He’s a trusty companion who would not run away,” she protests, “but yes. Let us fetch him.”

 

***

 

In the stables I sit on a hay pile and watch as Floriane gently pets her mount’s long white nose, smiling at him fondly. “Sorry I left you alone so long, Maximus,” she apologizes, hugging him around the neck. The horse looks at me, bulging black eyes wary, and I can make out a bit of a sentence in his whinny.

_Don’t let them punish her, Two-legs._

I wonder just what sort of punishments are bad enough that the horse worries about them. “Will they be very upset with you?” I inquire at length.

She paused for a moment but doesn’t seem too worried. “Mayhaps. Mayhaps not. I don’t mind. One day I shall be a grown lady, and they won’t dare lay a hand on me then or speak a word out of turn.”

A picture takes root in my mind, a vision of Florian as a grown woman and a lady of the Court. Dark curls up and hidden discreetly under a proper headpiece, great heavy skirts embroidered in golds to offset the dark blues, posture straight, movements elegant, face proud, color shifting eyes both beguiling and intimidating. A right proper beauty to rival my own mother.

“You will make a most charming lady of the manor, my lady.”

She stops, glancing at me over her shoulder. “And you shall remain the fairest tongued stable hand to ever grace the country.”

“Just the country?”

“How about Europe?”

“Well, that may be a bit much.”

She giggles, and without a word of warning, quicker than I can follow, she takes a few steps towards me, leans down and steals a quick, chaste kiss. She’s already leaving the stable by the time I process the whole thing. She stands, leaning against the door frame, peering outside. I don’t have to ask why; I can hear it. Horses clopping and snorting and men and a few women’s voices drawing nearer. Our brief hour of childish play has officially come to an abrupt but definite end.

“I’ll talk to you later stable boy,” she promises as she gazes out at the procession. “You know where to meet me.” She doesn’t look back again as she steps out to meet the procession, ready to face them on her own.

Her horse snickers, giving me a sly look. _You’re a lucky fellow getting kissed by a princess, aren’t you sonny?_

“Your name is Maximus, right?”

_That’s what she calls me.You have a problem with that?_

“Maximus, your lady has spirit.”

_I know you can understand me, elfthing. Don’t ignore me when I’m talking._

I chuckle to myself and set about mucking out the stables. Maximus must know more about the princess and I have plenty of questions to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yes, I went with a time skip. That might seem like a cop-out, but I needed to push the story forward. Aged-up Schneewittchen seems quite a bit more well adjusted that his creepier, toddler self. Not sure if that it a good thing or a bad thing. :/
> 
> (Also, hooray! This is Snow White's first scene in the Disney version. We are finally getting past all that build up.)


End file.
